


Immersion

by violentdarlings



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Coming Untouched, Darth Vader Needs a Hug, Dehumanization, Dubious Consent, F/M, Masturbation, Mind Sex, Not Beta Read, Power Dynamics, That's Not How The Force Works, Voyeurism, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:21:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25184728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentdarlings/pseuds/violentdarlings
Summary: Vader goes on a power trip and gets more than he bargained for.Featuring damaged people being damaged.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Immersion

Vader sits in the dark and listens.

The shower runs in the next room, steam clogging the air, water turned as hot as it will go, and the woman stands underneath the spray.

She is thinking. Her thoughts come slow and sleepy, like thick water oozing around corners, an effect of the drug the pleasure slaves are forced to swallow before the evening commences. She feels the scorching warmth beat down on her, idly considering her wet dark hair, the way a long hank of it curls around the shocking white of her breast, contrasts with the dusky rose of her nipple –

It is clinical, the way she examines herself. Vader immerses himself in the shallow pond on her mind, a silent voyeur, absorbing not just her thoughts but the fullness of every sense, the taste of her clean mouth, freshened before she stepped under the water; the feel of the cloth scrubbing her back, her belly, the lush curve of her ass. He can almost feel it himself, like he has stepped out of his own mutilated body into her own; can almost feel her strong legs supporting him, the sweep of organic fingertips through thick hair, the half-sigh she feels deep in her chest as her nails catch on her scalp.

Vader draws away from the physical, as pleasant a distraction as it is, and listens deeper.

She’s thinking about the sheer selfish luxury of as much hot water as she wants, after so many long hours of being forced to please others. She’s thinking that there is a bed nearby, a soft lush thing with fluffy pillows, and that she will get to sleep in it bare to her skin like she is now, wake to soft light and a day without duty, gods, how long has it been –

Vader stiffens, just the tiniest amount, from the raw relief pouring off her, and the connection breaks for a moment, just long enough to lose the thread of her thoughts. He frowns, refocuses, and picks it up again.

She’s tired, her feet hurt, her neck and head and shoulders throb from how hard she’d been forced down on the last one’s shaft, why do they have to be rough, they already know she’s a sure thing with that chip at the base of her skull.

He doesn’t like that either. He likes these little sojourns into others’ minds to get away from the sensation of being owned, not to experience more of it. But what else can he expect from a pleasure slave, one of the star centerpieces of the Emperor’s party, dressed in gossamer silk that had been ripped from her at the first opportunity.

Oh, they’re not called slaves. But everyone knows.

Vader wanted distraction, and it seems he is not going to get it. He is an inch from standing to leave, from withdrawing from the woman’s mind, but then he sees himself.

It’s not exactly new. He has seen himself in the minds of others, more times that he can count. But the usual emotions are not there, the fear and hatred and desperation. He doubts the girl could feel that right now, with the drug dulling her reflexes and emotions. Against his better judgment, he stays.

 _Lord Vader seemed angry tonight,_ she thinks, except she doesn’t think it like that. Instead she uses the mental impression she has of him rather than his name or image; the impression is comprised of fluttering cape, black shining lines, and a swirling coldness. She feels angry instead of thinks it; rather, she conjures up what anger feels like when directed at her; cruel eyes, hard hands, and laces it into her impression of him; his folded hands creaking as he tightens them, the rigidity in his posture, the contrast of him against the uninhibited party-goers. Vader delves deeper and brushes up against envy ( _Vader doesn’t have to put up with drunks touching_ him), amusement ( _does he ever catch his cape on things_ ) and oddly, a sense of admiration _. Man knows how to dress_ , he catches as a throwaway aside, and he is dwelling on that when the woman reaches out and turns the handle of the shower sharply to cold.

Vader shudders inside his suit. He was so deep in the woman’s thoughts that he felt the way her flesh revolted at the cold, drawing in on itself, in his own skin. He is angry, and acutely aware she is not enjoying herself now, that she feels that the cold brings her more back to herself, chasing off the numbing effects of the drug. He relaxes slightly, and endures the ice of it with her until she can bear it no longer, ceasing the wintry assault with a flick of her wrist, and stepping out of the shower.

 _Two towels!_ is all he can hear for a moment, victory and happiness, one for the hair and one to wrap around herself. Truly the height of luxury.

The roar of the water has been silenced. Vader feels the exact moment she hears his respirator.

It is like she has again been doused in ice.

Her thoughts accelerate, darting from concept to concept. She knows, completely, that Lord Vader never touches the pleasure slaves, that he has no interest in their bodies or their skills. Some of her bolder compatriots have sidled up to Vader in their time, have been coldly rebuffed. He can’t want her for that, so that means, it can only mean.

In the space of a breath, she becomes dully resigned to death.

She is regretting trying to sober herself. Regretting not bringing something into the room to wear. Regretting she didn’t kiss her sister on the cheek the last time she was home, regretting thinking how much she hates the Emperor’s palace, regretting she was ever born and has lived to experience this moment, this terrible fear and this absolute absence of hope –

“Come,” Vader says, and feels the shiver in her down to his bones.

She cautiously steps through the doorway. Vader turns his head to look at her. The towel in her hair has fallen in her shock, and her damp dark hair curls down her back, thick strands falling into her eyes. The white towel is wrapped around her body, striking against her skin. Vader is not interested in her body, beyond a vague appreciation for the aesthetics of it.

Her eyes are frightened, and she is trembling, but she has strong shoulders, her spine straight, and she is not looking away from him. Vader is seen.

“My lord,” she murmurs, and goes to her knees, one hand keeping herself covered with the cloth. “An unexpected pleasure.”

Vader ignores her words, studying her instead. He does not want her on her knees, except he does, somehow. He goes into her mind, and finds her shallow pond disturbed, rippling and flexing. Intrigued, he probes deeper, setting the mental equivalent of a foot in her waters.

She is not so shallow as he had thought. He plunges down into cold water, deeper and deeper, it closes over his head, it fills up his lungs. He is brought back to himself by her gasp, and opens his own eyes. She is staring at him. “You looked inside me,” she whispers, and she is not afraid.

She is awed.

Vader raises a hand, beckons her with a single finger. He expects her to stand, to walk towards him, but it is no great distance; she simply remains on her knees and inches forward, not quite a crawl, but not a walk either. It takes her only moments to reach his side.

“What is your will, my lord?” she asks. Vader tilts his head, and lets his monstrous black hand settle on her damp hair. He cannot feel its softness, or the moisture clinging to the strands. But he can feel the tremor running through her like lightning, can see her eyes flutter shut, and hear her thoughts.

 _Feels good,_ she thinks languorously, to have a gentle hand on her for once. When she opens her eyes, Vader notices for the first time her dilated pupils, the flush in her cheeks. She is still very drugged.

Once, that would have mattered to him.

She is still, but she is not settled. Her heart pounds in her chest, thundering in her veins, and the fight or flight instinct is still there, adrenaline flooding into her blood. He remembers what it feels like.

Like being alive.

“I would like to watch you,” he tells her, the vocoder turning his weak voice into the dark rumble that his Master gave him, so long ago now. “Get on the bed.”

He feels it, the exact moment she understands.

She sheds the towel, clambers onto the bed, her eyes on him, and lays back on the dark sheets, her skin a blinding contrast. Vader turns until he is facing her completely, leans forward slightly, his hands on his knees. He watches her track his movements.

“Close your eyes,” he orders roughly. “Touch yourself.”

She’s a whore. She gets it. He is absurdly grateful for that.

He thought she would go straight to between her legs, but the girl sighs, runs a small hand over her hair, down the side of her face, to her throat. She rakes her nails down the soft skin, cupping her round breasts, fingering the nipples into small tight buds. Vader slips into her, and the sigh that comes out of her when she stretches her legs out comes out of him as well. She is seducing herself.

She is seducing Vader as well. He shifts in his chair.

Her mind is all sensation on the surface, but Vader dives into that pond, falls through layer after layer of feeling and thought, until he touches the very bottom, immersed totally in her alien landscape. The very core, the essence of her is tucked away down here, and it is bright and vibrant, everything her shallow pond is not.

She is thinking about him. She is thinking that his voice is deep and dark, that he is so much bigger than her, big and black and terrifying, that she would like to be spread on his lap and rub herself up against the shining onyx of his suit, wants to feel that rasping breathing up against her lips, kiss that silent, motionless mask –

Vader jerks, and almost falls off his chair.

He does not understand this. He expected her to fantasize, perhaps about previous lovers or someone she finds attractive, but he did not expect _himself_. He is not the kind of thing that invites lovemaking, or desire. But he skims her mind again and finds himself the center of it, and he almost can’t believe it, that it is him who is arousing her, Force, the absurdity of it. Vader has not been (never?) the source of someone’s arousal for a very long time.

Yet he can feel it. He can hear her cataloguing the shape of his gloved hands; can feel how the sight of his massive, hulking form makes her shiver. There is no falseness in it, for all she is less inhibited than she usually is. She finds the Emperor’s enforcer attractive, and Vader notices when she shifts on the bed. He can’t see any chance in her position, but he is in her head; he can feel the way she rubs her thighs together like a kick in the gut.

A pleasant, swooping sort of kick.

She wants to hear him talk. “And what should I say?” he asks, hears his voice and _hears_ his voice, the silken bass rumble of it and the way it spreads through her, like warmth oozing into every tiny bit of her. “You are in no position to make demands.”

That’s it. He’s kicked over a rock in her brain, or followed her down a winding drop, and her mind is full of things she knows she shouldn’t enjoy, the bitterness of the guilt spiking the pleasure all the sweeter. She is imagining herself his prisoner, in some anonymous interrogation chamber, seated before him, chained at wrist and ankles, and staring up at him in all his monstrous glory –

By the Force.

“I could make you talk,” he rasps out. She gasps, her eyelids fluttering, and it hardly matters; the image/concept of him is so big in her mind, dwarfing everything else. She is still captivated by him whether eyes open or shut.

“Please, lord,” she murmurs, squirming on the bed. “I haven’t down anything wrong, I’ve been good –”

The Vader in her mind smashes a huge black-gloved hand on the table between them. “Don’t take me for a fool,” Vader says aloud, but he didn’t need to; he pushes the thought directly into her. “You are utterly alone here. I could do whatever I want with you.”

On the bed, her head twists to the side, her hand working faster between her legs. “No, stop,” she whimpers, except Vader can hear her, the roar inside her _, yes yes yes yes YES_. Her free hand twists in the sheets, bracing herself, and Vader can’t look away, for one hard moment, from that clenched fist. Rage, and desire.

She is getting to the business end of the fantasy. In her head, her Vader has gripped her hard by the throat, has dragged her upwards until she is bent over the table. Her hands are bound separately now, instead of together; she doesn’t seem to notice the change, and Vader feels the moment something blunt and hard rubs up against the soft warm flesh between her legs.

She has imagined quite an impressive cock for him, Vader notices wryly. He is in her, feeling that alien hot swooping warmth in her, that melting aching desire to be filled, the raw need to have something inside of her. Vader considers his own flaccid organ, the damage done to it on Mustafar, his Emperor’s lack of reconstructive efforts in that department. Vader can walk and speak and kill and maim. That is his function. Pleasure is not for him.

Except it is, oh, it is. Vader’s skin hums pleasantly at the phantom touches, the echo in the ruin of his body from the girl on the bed. She writhes, lazily, three fingers crooked inside of her, the heel of her hand tormenting the hard bundle of nerves above her hole. He feels her emptiness, feels the moment the imagined cock parts her, penetrates her, the thrust of it in and out, merciless, punishing, and so good he can’t believe it.

He is with her. Her pleasure is his, and the Vader in her imagination slams his massive hands down on the table on either side of her head, the leather creaking, and her desire flares white-hot, Vader drawn into a sudden stream of thought like the tide dragging him under –

_– gods I want him I want him he could kill me break me fuck why is that so hot, lord vader lord vader give it to me, make me take it, use me, take what you want from me, I want to make you feel good –_

Her hips twist up at that, and Vader sees both the image in her head and the sight of her on the bed, pale, every inch of her alive with motion, rocking into her hand, and the bone-deep rush of how much she wants to please him, how she needs it, wants so desperately to be used and taken by a man, a real man, not those sycophants of the Emperor, not even the Emperor himself, only Vader is powerful, only Vader could keep her safe. Treason, exquisite treason.

She has wound herself up too tight, and Vader feels the moment she lets go. Her body clenches around her fingers and around the imagined invading cock, getting hotter and wetter, the throbbing starburst of her clitoris, the ripples of it into every bit of her body. Vader stiffens, and his mouth opens, held in the instant of her climax for one infinite moment, before he becomes aware, brutally, of his own body, something tensing, something drawing tight, and a sudden wet hot spill of blinding _good_ –

He is too tangled in the girl’s mind, and she feels it too, that moment neither of them were expecting. He feels her toes twitch at it, the involuntary lift of her hips, surprise mixed with unexpected pleasure. Vader panics, and drags himself out of her mind too fast; she goes cold and humiliated all at once, the recognition that he saw it all, what must he think of her, she is definitely going to die this time.

Vader is reeling. He had expected to find a thin echo of her pleasure in his own body, but not that. Not the involuntary, near-painful spasm of his cock flexing, the emission sticky and unpleasant in his body glove. His body is not made for pleasure. He is more machine than man. He is –

Being watched.

The woman is still panting, and she is looking at him. Vader should kill her. She could speak of this.

But she looks so small. Nothing so small could surely harm him, the hulking black specter enforcing the Emperor’s will.

And it is not her fault, that she aroused his attention. He should not have come to her, but he had been curious; he is well punished for his voyeurism into her mind and the demands he made of her. He is discomforted and uneasy about his body’s spontaneous reaction, and leaves without a backward glance, sweeping down the halls of the Emperor’s palace, intent on his own quarters, his hyperbaric chamber, mediation easing him into something like sleep.

But. It had been what she had thought, at the Emperor’s gathering, when she’d been forced to endure being used by the stranger. She had seen, with her watering eyes and dizzy mind, the image of him, of Vader, standing aloof from the throng of orgiastic partygoers, and the pain in her throat, the struggle to breathe, and so tired of being used –

She’d looked at Vader, alone and estranged from all around him, and she had thought,

_I wish I was him._


End file.
